Gain
by TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: Two very unlikely doctors meet in a fate-filled meeting at the local Suds N' Stuff.


**Gain**

**I wrote this little story while doing laundry in the basement of my dorm and watching Re-Animator, followed by reading my newly aquired Jonathan Crane comic. The combination of my laundry soap, Gain if you couldn't tell, my love for Herbert West, and my love for Jonathan Crane all started mixing into one laundry inspired fic. Hence this little beauty. No one pays enough love to Herbert and Jonathan anyways, so I figured why not give it a go all at once. There need to be more Combination stories and crossovers out there anyways. **

**Anyways, I don't own either Dr. Herbert West or Jonathan Crane. (Or Gotham City, Arkham, Massachussets, Batman, Miskatonic University, Daniel Cain, or anything else like that.) They are the property of DC Comics, Bob Kane, H.P. Lovecraft (original Re-Animator), Jeffrey Combs (Herbert West/Jonathan Crane Actor/Voice-over), and Dennis Paoli (dirrector of the movie.) I would love to own them, however I do not. Please give all dirrect credit to them. **

**I only write about them and randomly see people who look identical to Jeffrey Combs and Jonathan Crane on Purdue Campus. **

* * *

Herbert West was not the kind of person to be caught dead inside a laundry mat wearing what he was wearing now. In fact, he was the sort of man that normally wore a collared shirt, a simple black tie, and black dress slacks to everything every day of his life. (He liked consistency. Well, that and he couldn't be bothered with the subject that was clothing when there was work to be done in his lab.) However, on this fall day in the middle of October, he would have to brave the world and venture out into the open to do his laundry at the local Suds N' Stuff since his last presentable outfit had been…contaminated in last night's experiments.

He didn't want to think about the fact that it, meaning the laundry, had escaped his notice for more than two weeks now. The mountain of bloodied, dead bodied shirts, pants, and ties mounding up outside the doorway to his laboratory failed to catch his interests when he was making break through research in his reagent. It didn't fail to escape his notice though when he was covered head to toe in gore after dealing with a less than co-operable test subject he'd fished out of the Gotham City Morgue earlier that evening.

Currently that's where he was at, his new base of operations being in the less than reparable Gotham City. He'd been drawn here after the last incident in Arkham, Massachusetts. The whole deal with the Miskatonic Massacre hadn't done much for his reputation or his public standing there, and as a result he was forced to seek out an alternate city in which to relocate to. This one had seemed just as good as any other, if not better for the fact that the chemical trafficking here seemed to operate more on the basis of "don't-ask-don't-tell" than anywhere else. How could he pass an opportunity like that up without further investigation?

He was a scientist after all.

And so here he found himself, working at the Gotham City Morgue by day under the operative name of Herbert Jules; arm's length deep in cadavers that no one would miss. (He could be rid of his last name if necessary, as well as the suspended medical license, but something about his first name couldn't be replaced. It was a part of him now.) That was the great thing about a mob ruled town: there were hundreds of John Does and Jane Does every day with no one to claim them. So when he'd work late at night he'd just sort of…misplace one. No one ever asked questions, not here, not in Gotham.

So he'd gone days into his research, working during the daylight hours on his own private studies and then turning around to work the morgue in the evenings so that he could further procure his daytime activities. He was holed up in a basement apartment somewhere in the Narrows, a place no one cared about, his work perfectly safe from prying police eyes. It was a good thing no one here looked twice at you too; otherwise they'd have seen him in a very vulnerable, very uncomfortable position.

His daily attire never consisted of gym shorts and a plain white t-shirt.

Grumbling, he pushed the little door to the Suds N' Stuff with his back as he walked in backwards, laundry basket filled to the brim with a laundry bag, ahem, trash bag used to conceal his less-than-reputable-stained clothing. Thankfully there was no one inside to see him as he shoved bloodied, organ covered shirts and pants into their separate washing machines. (Yes, even he knew that whites were a separate load than darks.) His ties…well, most of them were un-savable anyways. They were cheap, plain black ties that were easily replaced. Good thing too.

Quickly he tried to turn around, only to run head long into a toweringly thin man who he hadn't seen behind him. The laundry basket flew out of his hands and landed upset on the floor, he himself soon joining it in his pitiful attempts to remain standing. The other man, however, merely glared haughtily down at Herbert before continue with his own laundry basket to a large washing machine near the ones that Herbert had silently claimed as his own. He would remain from growling, but Herbert sent a rather nasty glare in the man's back as he replaced his glasses and once again gathered his soiled laundry for washing.

Thankfully the two men were the only ones in the small laundry mat, giving Herbert an increasingly good chance that no one would see the results of his experiments. And, if the other man happened to see them, well, he could always be dealt with accordingly. He was taller than Herbert, but just as thin and sinewy as he was, so his chances were increased in a fight. But the daunting black eye he sported didn't encourage him to start anything unless absolutely necessary.

Swiftly he stuffed the large load of red, pink, and white shirts into the industrial size machine before inserting bleach, detergent, his quarters silently, and hitting start. As it hummed to life, he moved to the one directly next to it and repeated the process with his pants, totally unaware of the fact that the taller man with a hawk-like nose and large glasses was watching him while stuffing his own laundry into the machine hastily. After he was sure that no one was watching, he wrapped the grimy trash bag around his hand several times, wrapping it into a tight little ball, before pealing it off his hand and throwing it away in the large waste basket between two dryers.

Now all he could do was wait.

--

Jonathan Crane wasn't the sort of man who wanted to wander down to the laundry mat clad in nothing more than a pair of grey jogging pants and an over sized black t-shirt. It wasn't like the clothing was really his anyways. It was more that he'd lifted it from whoever owned the apartment before he'd gotten there, an accurate if not slightly false statement. It wasn't his fault if they'd been unable to take the hint and leave before the Fear Toxin had been produced. Now they were just one ranting patient of fear and a rotting corpse somewhere in the depths of the Gotham River.

The Narrows really did have their advantages after all, and he could attest to it.

He would have worn his favored dress shirt and slacks out into Gotham had he not gotten the very last set he currently had ruined by a crazed test patient earlier that morning. (Almost four this morning in actuality, but that was just splitting hairs.) Now he found himself in the Suds N' Stuff with his costume and several conspicuous loads of mysteriously stained dress clothing stuffed in a dark colored laundry bag he'd found in the same closet as the clothing he now wore.

If that wasn't bad enough, he was out in the middle of the day thinking that no one would be out and about while he did the necessary deed that came hand in hand with good hygiene, when a short, dark haired man came barreling through the door backwards and ran straight into him. He had about knocked him to the ground! At least he, the Scarecrow, had enough grace and poise to remain standing while the shorter man went sprawling, his laundry basket hitting the ground with a solid 'thud!' and the sound of glass meeting tile as black framed spectacles got to know the linoleum. Jonathan just glared at him as he continued on to the industrial sized washing machine, his nose in the air.

That was after he noticed that the man's laundry basket had a large, black plastic garbage bag lining it with a brimming load of what could only be laundry. Now, being the psychologist he was, Jonathan couldn't help but watch out of his peripheral vision as the smaller man finally came up next to him and set his basket down. He opened the drawstring garbage back hastily and started throwing shirt after shirt into the large machine. The strange thing was that most of the shirts were white with overlarge red, brown, and chunky splotches on them. Jonathan refused to believe that he worked in an Italian restaurant.

As soon as he'd loaded the first one and set it into a whirl of motion, the younger man moved to the next one to repeat the process. This one though was filled with a number of dark colored trousers, some with noticeable brown patches on the fronts of them. This piqued his interest for sure, so carefully he continued to watch as he too set his machine into life. The younger man didn't seem to notice that he was being watched. He could only hope that the mystery man with large framed glasses wasn't secretly watching him, or the laundry he'd just loaded into the machine in front of him.

He was fairly sure that he _had_ noticed the black eye the Bat had given him a few nights prior.

--

Neither man spoke to the other as their separate machines roared to life in the silence of the dimly lit laundry mat, their minds somewhere in the recesses of their own research. Thankfully Herbert had brought with him his research notes and small hard-covered journal that he used to record the newest findings in his project. (He liked this sort and had used them for the last few books he'd already filled up.) Unfortunately he couldn't listen to his recordings that he'd made last night without risking the man adjacent to him hearing it. So he'd settled for dictating what he'd committed to memory and jaunting side notes in the margins on previous cases.

Jonathan had had a similar idea.

He too had out a shabby bound notebook, furiously taking notes in it, but it wasn't about his research. These notes were about the man across the room from him, nose buried into a stuffed notebook as he scrawled out furiously in the margins with a taped up pencil he'd pulled from his gym shorts pocket. His unusual behavior, along with his grotesque clothing, had caught more than a feigned interest in the passing ex-psychologist, and now he was observing him as he recorded something on the paper of his notebook.

Even when the on-duty laundry owner, a small Chinese woman with graying hair and large coke-bottle spectacles, shuffled back in to turn on the TV did the two men lift their heads up to meet anyone's gaze but the notebook they were each scribbling furiously in. Jonathan taking notes about the man across the room, and Herbert dictating to himself mentally about some odd experiment a week prior, both wrapped up completely in their own research. The little old woman smiled fondly at the two blurs in her mat and returned to the back room, bell tinkling lightly as she exited.

--

Herbert knew he was being watched by the other man in the room. He'd felt his eyes watching him ever since he'd loaded the machine next to him, his vision not focused directly on him, but watching him out of the corner of his eyes. He may be oblivious most of the time, but he rarely missed when someone was watching him this closely…_especially_ when they were giving his research notes odd looks before furiously scribbling in their own notebook.

Could it be that this man recognized him from the news reports almost six months prior?

They hadn't been running in a while now, since he'd disappeared from the mental hospital they'd stashed him in after the little incident they'd felt needed the label 'massacre' back in Massachusetts. However, he was fairly sure that that incident had made the evening news in more than just in his home state, so it was a possibility that he'd been recognized by this hawk-gazed man who was watching him extremely close.

But he couldn't let the other know that he realized the gravity of the situation since it was possible he'd report him, and then he'd have to go on the run yet again. He didn't feel like doing that, not when he'd just gotten his lab all set up and organized once more. Plus, his reagent was almost in the final stages before recombination. He couldn't afford to leave all that behind simply because someone had recognized him.

The washing machine dinged and Herbert got up to switch over his clothing.

--

Jonathan Crane knew better than to be fooled.

When the man got up to switch over his clothing, he caught the calculating glare out of the corner of the large framed glasses as he passed. He was almost looking into Jonathan's core, sizing up his wealth and necessity to live. He clearly now knew that he was being watched. Blast, his notes were just getting good too. Jonathan had speculated a list of fears the timid, quite man could possibly have and had started designing theories to test it when his own machine dinged and he rose to find the man already turning back to his table and notes.

Maybe the smaller man would make a useful test subject sooner than he'd expected.

Jonathan was careful with all his laundry, feeling a set of eyes digging into his back as he balled up his mask and costume components and shoved them rapidly into the dryer directly next to his machine. That's why he'd chosen this machine, for the short distance between the washer and the dryer. That gave less of a chance of someone to realize who he was and just exactly what he was washing.

With a few more pilfered quarters his dryer whirled off into life and he returned to his seat hesitantly, avoiding eye contact with the man across the room, who was now facing away from him. He was clearly trying to shield whatever he was working on from Jonathan's prying eyes, making his curiosity spark even more. What was he working on that was so secretive? He'd definitely have to follow this man out.

--

After about an hour all three of the dryers buzzed to let their respective users know that their clothing was dry and ready for transport. Each man got up and quickly loaded their baskets with their clothes, not bothering to fold them in their haste to escape the other's presence.

Unfortunately for Jonathan, Herbert was much quicker and quieter than he'd been given credit for, and he slipped out of the Suds N' Stuff without another scuffling noise, into the blackness that made up Gotham City's back alleyways. Professor Crane cursed his unfortunate luck and continued to stuff his costume and clothing back into the bag in his basket before rounding on the door and strolling out with a faint tingling of a doorway chime.

Now all he had to do was get back to his hide-out without a Bat incident and he'd be scot free until his next shipment of chemicals was due to come in.

The sound of his feet striking the pavement was the only sound that echoed out in the dimly lit streets as he continued his trek, his basket under one arm and his lone canister of Fear Toxin clutched tightly in the other. He never went anywhere unarmed, not even the laundry mat. He had to be prepared for the surprise appearance that the Batman always seemed to make when he least expected it.

He heard the foot falls only as he was roughly shoved into an alleyway and pressed up against the dank and dirty wall at the back of it, his laundry basket falling into a pile of bagged garbage with a harsh plastic sound. He instinctively raised his canister of toxin and pointed it at his attackers face as he felt the faintest of pricks against the skin in his neck, causing him to stop. A cool and even voice rang out in the darkness of the alleyway.

"Who are you? Why are you following me?" it demanded, shoving him into the wall again. "If you scream I'll kill you. The serum in this needle is more potent than my others, and is in a higher concentrated dose. The living don't do much living afterward, I assure you."

Jonathan blinked before retaliating nastily.

"Who are you to follow me? I could kill you with one spray of this canister!" he threatened, shoving the silver capsule under the man's nose. "Not even the Bat would be able to recognize you after this is through."

"The Bat? What do I care for some rodent with wings when it is you who should be afraid?" the man shoved him again, the jabbing of the needle skimming his neck again as they were shoved backwards farther into the faint light from the street. "Now, why were you watching me?"

Jonathan squinted in the light as he caught site of the same black framed glasses from the laundry mat, the smaller man behind them now the one with a needle full of a luminescent green substance pressed into his neck threateningly. He wasn't sure who the man was, but clearly he didn't know who he was either, which indicated that he wasn't from Gotham and that he hadn't been in town long enough to realize a Rogue when he met one, let alone not know who the Batman was. The very absurdity of this made Jonathan give a sharp bark of laughter.

"You're very cocky for someone who isn't from Gotham. I wonder what you have in that notebook of yours, Mr.?" He started, asking the man's identity. The suspense was killing him, literally and figuratively.

The man with the large glasses looked suspicious at first, but eased off slightly to give Jonathan some breathing room. He didn't, however, remove the needle from its spot against his jugular vein, so Jonathan in turn didn't remove his toxin canister from inches near the man's face.

"West, Dr. Herbert West. And you are?" he nodded in Jonathan's direction, glasses slipping off his nose slightly.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane." He responded coolly. The man didn't bat an eye, clearly not recognizing the name. What a coincidence, he didn't know the other man either.

"It doesn't matter what's in my notebook, Dr. Crane, or who I am. All I want to know is why were you watching me? I've done nothing to you that I know of, so you have no possible means for such an act."

"I was studying you Dr. West. That's what I do." He smiled ominously. "Your clothing was incredibly interesting, as was you behavior and your mysterious notebook. I was merely observing you as you worked."

"I see. I want those notes please, as well as your notebook. Once I have them I'll be on my way and you can return to wherever it is you come from Dr. Crane." He released his shirt front and extended his hand, the needle never moving from his pulse point. "Now, if you please, hand over the notebook."

Jonathan did so, knowing that once the man saw the frantic scribbling of the chemistry compounds, the costume designs, and fear notes that he'd know he was dealing with a Rogue. But not any Rogue, the Scarecrow, Master of Fear, to be precise. This Dr. West was in for a rude awakening once he realized who he was messing with, mysterious glowing compound or not.

As predicted, Herbert flipped through it, saw the working notes and compounds, and immediately paled more than he already was. By now he was as white as his shirt, a dim look of realization passing over his face. He looked up at Crane, to the canister he was holding, back to his notes, and up to him once more just for good measure.

"Who are you?" He asked again, throwing the notebook back behind him swiftly. "You're not just a normal citizen are you?"

"No, I'm not. And neither are you." The smirk continued to gleam in the dull light, shining out of his icy blue eyes with a fierceness that stunned many people. West didn't seem to be effected. "Who are you?"

"You're a Rogue, aren't you? I should have known by the odd costume you tossed into the machine earlier. I was going to ignore it though and go on my way until you decided to invade my privacy." His calculative glare was back now as he slowly released Crane, ignoring the man's earlier question of identity. "Which one are you?"

"Quite observant Dr. West, I'm impressed." Replied Jonathan as he dusted off imaginary dirt from the borrowed clothing he wore before sweeping into a flourishing bow. "I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, Master of Fear."

Herbert West nodded swiftly before pocketing the syringe and turning around to retrieve the discarded notebook. Carefully he picked it up and opened it, locating the pages with detailed profile notes and theories on him and ripping them out. After he was sure he had all of them, he handed the notebook back to Jonathan and began to leave. When he got to the mouth of the alleyway he paused and turned back around slightly, a scowl on his face.

"I don't have to worry about you going to the authorities, Dr. Crane, so I'll let you return to your work unharmed as long as you keep my appearance and identity to yourself. I trust that you can do that?" Jonathan nodded, although he scowled in return. "Good. Then I'll bid you good night Dr. Crane, and good-bye."

Herbert West whirled around before starting out of the alley once more, only getting a few feet before Jonathan's voice rang out in the darkness. His tone was authoritative, sharp, demanding.

"You didn't answer my question Dr. West." Called Jonathan, making the small man's figure stop mid stride although he didn't turn back around. "Who are you besides Dr. Herbert West?"

"The Re-Animator."

And Herbert West was gone, leaving only the slightest scent of Gain in his wake.

* * *

**Written for the Captain, Al, and Techie. You three will never know just how much you three inspire me.**

**And for Victoria because she was the driving force behind me writing these little ficlets. **


End file.
